


Blood Heat

by warpropti (orphan_account)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Fisting, Kidnapping, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Non-Consensual Groping, Rescue, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 12:56:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6195961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/warpropti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poe gets kidnapped by slavers. After that, everything goes a little hazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/2821.html?thread=5371141#cmt5371141) on the TFA kink meme, but mostly written for that one nonnie who really liked the slave auction scene from [Angelique.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angelique_\(French_series\))
> 
> The fisting is a bonus.

Poe woke up naked and confused, with a crick in his neck from where he'd been lying on a stone floor for far too long. While none of that was too unusual for some of his wild pre-Resistance days, what gave him cause for concern was that he also woke up in a cage, and on a desert planet instead of the frozen moon he last remembered. He wasn't sure what time it was or how long he'd been unconscious, but the layer of sweat sticking to his skin and the dryness of his mouth made it readily apparent that he'd been here longer then he was comfortable with. When combined with a throbbing headache either from dehydration or a fall or both, Poe could come to only one conclusion: whatever his mission had been, he'd obviously failed.

Although the memories were muddled at first, it didn't take Poe long to remember the details, or at least how it started; it had been standard reconnaissance on a trade route not far from the Resistance's new base, and something had seemed odd with the readings for one of the smaller moons. He'd gone to investigate, expecting to find a monitoring post for the First Order or even one of the local criminal elements; when he'd found nothing, he'd foolishly let his guard down, and that somehow led to him ending up here.

If he really concentrated, he thought he could remember more—hiding the X-Wing at least, BB-8 with it, although the little droid had had some choice things to say about being abandoned _again_ —but beyond that, nothing. He must've been tranqed, but the culprit wasn't exactly clear, not even when he stood up to look around. All he saw was miles of flat, dry earth, his cage situated somewhere near the center of a small and seemingly deserted camp, and the cage itself was made of thick red bars of dense metal. They had no give at all when he pulled on them, nor did the locking mechanism look like it was powered by an electric circuit; the entire structure seemed designed to elicit a primal sort of fear, and Poe had to give whoever they were credit, because they succeeded at that. There would be no escape, not unless he could teach himself to pick locks when he had literally nothing on him to work with.

On the plus side, he reminded himself, at least this meant he hadn't been captured by the First Order; metal bars and naked prisoners weren't really their style. On the other hand, that meant it was definitely slavers, and that would make it a whole lot harder for the Resistance to find him…if they thought to come looking for him at all, that was. Poe wasn't entirely sure BB-8 and his ship had remained where he'd hidden them, which meant it was possible that no distress signal had ever been sent. It was a depressing thought, and Poe had to force himself not to dwell on it; he had other concerns at the moment, such as what would happen if the sun went down and he was still naked in the desert.

He didn't have to wonder long. His captors must have been monitoring him somehow because Poe hadn't been awake for more than half an hour before he heard the scuff-thump of heavy footsteps across dirt. He turned to see a Drovian shuffling towards him from the nearest speeder, their body enormous and clad in armor that looked distinctively Machnian in origin. That was a good sign; the moon Poe had landed on had been in the same system as Machna, so there was a chance he hadn't gone far. Maybe.

The Drovian himself, for his part, looked bored, and although his arms were full, there wasn't a potential weapon to be seen. In one set of pinchers was a tray heaped with food, and in the other was a bundle of fabric, deep red except for the decorations that winked light with each step. Poe resisted the urge to cover himself as the Drovian came closer, and he made himself grin in what he hoped was a charming, but harmless, manner.

"Hey, thanks for letting me stay here—real nice place. A little drafty, so you might want to work on that." Poe doubted the Drovian understood a word of Basic, but he kept talking regardless. "I'm ready to leave now, though, if you wouldn't mind unlocking the door?"

The Drovian either didn't understand him or didn't care to answer him, because he didn't do anything except push the bundle of fabric through the bars and gesture for Poe to come closer. Poe didn't obey the command on principle, but his stubbornness did little good; the cage wasn't large enough for Poe to stay out of reach, and when Poe failed to move, the Drovian simply grabbed his arm and tugged him forward impatiently. Poe nearly lost his balance thanks to the sweat slick soles of his feet, but he recovered in time to catch himself on the bars rather than the ground. He stared at the pile of fabric he'd nearly fallen into.

It was a pile of clothes, although—upon closer inspection—calling the two items clothes might have been too generous. They were more like scraps of fabric connected by metal, and when he tentatively picked them up, their weight seemed too heavy for the amount of coverage they would provide. The first piece—what Poe assumed was the top of the outfit—was a pentagon of fabric likely designed to fasten around the upper chest and neck with thick straps, decorated with brass rings to drape over the throat. The second piece was worse, just a thin ring of metal meant to rest above the hips and knee-length veils to barely cover the front and back, and definitely not intended to impede access in any way. It would be a humiliating outfit to wear while being paraded around in front of potential buyers, that Poe knew for certain, and he had the crazy thought that he'd actually prefer to be naked. At least then he'd still feel somewhat like himself.

The Drovian clicked his sharp pinchers impatiently from less than a foot away, and Poe reluctantly pulled the clothes on. When he fumbled with the ties to the chest piece, Poe half-expected the Drovian to attempt to fasten it himself; when he didn't, merely waiting while Poe struggled, Poe stored that knowledge away. No fingers; their species probably couldn't tie knots at all, and while that wasn't particularly helpful information at the moment, it at least explained why they hadn't just dressed him while he was unconscious. Well, that, or they liked the show; it made his skin crawl to think about it, so he tried not to.

When Poe had finished putting on both pieces, the Drovian made an approving sound and offered him the tray of food. It wasn't anything complicated, thick slices of funge-bread and a bowl of thin soup, but it was clearly intended as a reward for cooperating. The soup, he guessed, was also the only liquid in sight, possibly for miles, and his mouth and throat felt even drier than before.

Poe was almost positive it was drugged, and so despite temptation, he didn't reach for it. The Drovian gestured again, pointing at the tray as they did, and then raised their pinchers to mime that Poe should eat. Poe patted his bare stomach and shook his head, hoping the "not hungry" was clear despite the language barrier. 

It must have been, because the response was a string of Drovian so vehement that it left Poe's ears ringing. The Drovian pointed again to the food, and this time the action was followed by a threatening slashing motion in the direction of Poe's torso. Poe got the picture, and he quickly picked up the bread, hoping the show of compliance would be enough. It wasn't; the Drovian remained where they were, watching intently, until Poe grabbed the soup as well.

Under the watchful gaze of his captor, Poe ate.

**

Poe lost time after that; as he'd suspected, the food had been drugged, with some combination of sedative and muscle relaxant that left him woozy at the best of times and paralyzed but painfully aware at others. He wasn't surprised by the treatment, knowing the reputation of slavers as he did, but in his brief moments of lucidness, he wondered why they'd bothered wasting the resources on a human. Poe knew his odds of survival weren't great when it came to unarmed combat with either the Drovian or the Barabel he occasionally saw nearby, and even if he managed to escape captivity mostly in one piece, he wasn't sure where he'd go. Poe had no idea what system he was in, didn't know the terrain, and there were thousands of desert worlds. Millions. Finding his way back to the Resistance base from one puny planet when his minimal clothing clearly marked him as escaped property seemed impossible, and Poe wasn't that stupid…most of the time.

That didn't stop him from trying to bite his Barabel captor, however, the next time he came to. It was justified, he figured, since the first thing he registered upon waking was lying on a table with scaled hands running roughly over his body. The air around him smelled like spices and heat, the source clearly the scented oil being rubbed into his skin, but the touches themselves were too thorough for their task, too lingering and curious. Poe tried to shift out of reach, but his muscles were limp and unresponsive, and all his efforts only made him feel tired.

When one hand came up to rub moisturizing balm over his lips, Poe, seeing no other options, bit down as hard as he could. It was entirely ineffectual; he didn't have the strength to do much more than close his teeth around his captor's thumb, and whatever force was behind the action was diffused by layers of thick scales. Still, it made Poe feel slightly better, even though the Barabel's response was delight, amusement, and an increase in the curious groping. The Barabel—perhaps due to their reptilian nature, so different from human physiology—had a particular interest in the soft and fleshy parts of his body, claws continually testing the give around his stomach before their hands slipped beneath the waist of the veil to fondle his cock and balls. Poe wasn't sure if their interest was sexual or merely assessing, but either way, they seemed displeased when he failed to respond to their touch. When they eventually gave up in frustration and disappeared from sight, snarling all the way, Poe took pride in knowing that he hadn't cooperated at all, even while paralyzed.

The feeling was short lived. Poe wasn't sure how much time passed, but it wasn't long before the Barabel returned, carrying a flask half full of liquid that sparkled and moved unnaturally from side to side. It looked like a drug, something the Republic didn't trade in, and the thought gave him enough strength to keep his mouth closed when the flask was pressed insistently against his lips.

"Drink," the Barabel said in harsh Basic, and Poe twisted away, barely.

"No thanks," he said, the words coming out dry. "Really."

Like with the food, they didn't give him much choice. Unlike with the Drovian, however, the Barabel wasted no time trying to gain a semblance of cooperation, simply holding him still and prying his mouth open with oil slick fingers. He tilted the thick liquid into Poe's mouth at the first opportunity, with little care about how fast the liquid flowed.

"Drink," the Barabel repeated, but the command was unnecessary now; if Poe didn't drink it, he would've choked on it instead. 

As it was, Poe nearly gagged on the taste, sweeter than anything he'd ever had followed by a rapid and bitter aftertaste that coated the tongue. He wanted to wash it away immediately, but he couldn't pull out of the Barabel's grip, not even to turn his head; he had swallowed six or seven mouthfuls by the time the flask was taken away, and in the space of seconds, the effects had already began to take hold. His body felt hot, his mouth dry and aching, his spine immediately on fire while his hands and feet twitched. He gasped and closed his eyes, and nobody tried to stop him while he rode the sensations. He wanted to flinch from his own skin, and the longer it lasted, the worse it became.

When Poe passed out again, seconds or hours later, he was grateful.

**

The next time Poe became aware of his surroundings, he was kneeling on a table in an overcool room, his hands bound behind his back and a gag in his dry mouth. The only lights in the room were directly above him, spotlights intended to display him to his best, but he heard enough noise coming from the darkness to guess there were dozens of beings waiting just beyond what he could see. By the stiffness in his legs and shoulders, Poe guessed he'd been there a while, but he didn't remember being removed from the desert transport, didn't remember anything except agony and heat and sharp pleasure that had felt wrong even to his hazy mind. Whatever he'd been drugged with must have affected him in waves; even though he was aware now, he could feel it building in his blood again, that heat, and he trembled, nauseous from the sensation of cool air on his rapidly heating skin. Poe didn't want to give in, his stubbornness fueled by jumbled memories of what must have already happened in those periods when he wasn't himself, but he didn't know if he could fight his own body.

The situation was only made worse when he realized that the voices in the darkness were discussing _money_ , higher and higher sums interspersed with bouts of jeering laughter that sent chills up Poe's spine. As much as he hoped otherwise, he seriously doubted they were discussing trade routes or ship parts, and this was confirmed when a hand—dark violet, very large, possibly belonging to a Houk—emerged from the darkness beyond to rest on his bare stomach. To Poe's horror, he leaned into the contact, his body automatically responding without any input from his brain. It felt fantastic to be touched, _imperative_ to stop the burning in his skin, and it was like a live wire straight to his dick; if he hadn't been hard before, he was now, tenting the flimsy clothes he wore beyond indecency. The Houk said something before stepping fully into the light, and although Poe was repulsed by his lumpy jowls and leering expression, he still didn't want him to stop touching him. In fact, he wanted more.

A sharp voice sounded from the darkness, and the Houk scowled and moved back out of reach. Poe could've sobbed, and he was suddenly grateful for the gag; he had the terrible feeling he would've been begging without it, and it was humiliating enough that he couldn't stop himself from desperately thrusting his hips into the air, seeking friction that wasn't there. He heard the bidding go even higher than before, and the conversation was a collision of languages, Houkese and Barabel and Advb all running over one another into a mess of sound that left his temples pounding.

"Stop." A voice cut through the noise, silencing the crowd immediately. Poe thought the voice sounded vaguely familiar, as if its owner had whispered in his ear while he'd slept, and he didn't want to think about that too closely. "We have a special guest, and we honor our guests, especially after they've traveled so far. The bidding for item 188 will be put on hold until after our guest has had a chance to sample our wares."

There was an uproar at that, but Poe barely noticed, too focused on the number "188" that was etched into the edge of the table he was kneeling on. It was a confirmation he could've done without; _he_ was item 188, and he was apparently about to be sampled by whatever creature qualified as a "special guest" in a situation like this. Poe's mind conjured up several possibilities, each one more alarming than the last, but it wasn't until the guest in question stepped into the light and Poe looked up that he truly felt afraid.

A Zabrak raider. Between the red cloak that trailed the dusty ground and the mask that covered all but his eyes, the uniform was unmistakable and terrifying in a way a mere humanoid wasn't. Zabrak raiders, after all, had kept control of portions of the Outer Rim for nearly fifty years until the Republic had forced them into hiding with the destruction of their base. The attack had been led by a particularly daring, particularly _distinct_ pilot, too young to know better than to use his real name over the comms. Poe was deeply regretting that oversight now; Zabrak raiders didn't stop by slave auctions on nowhere planets on a whim, and Poe had the unsettling feeling that this Zabrak recognized _him_. He certainly stared as if he did.

Poe didn't know what it meant that the Zabrak refused to come closer until they were pushed forward by another red cloaked figure. The second one was slighter—a female, perhaps—but they gave the impression of being a leader, far more than the first one did; Poe wondered if he was supposed to be a gift to an underling or merely a part of the recruitment strategy for their clan, and then he decided it didn't matter. If he had his way, he'd be on a ship and headed back to the Resistance long before they had a chance to make it to their new base; he just had to endure.

Enduring became a lot harder when the Zabrak touched him. It was nothing more than their smooth, dark hand against his bare elbow, but it sent a jolt through his body like nothing he'd ever felt. Poe automatically leaned into them, squeezing their hand between his arm and his ribs for more contact between their skin, and he followed when they moved to pull away. The hand that pressed against his chest to halt his progress was a sudden, startling pressure, and he moaned, the sound muffled behind the gag in his mouth.

The Zabrak cursed, sounding almost angry, but he didn't try to move away again. Poe didn't think he should be thankful for that, and his stomach rolled when he realized that he was. He hated that, hated that he _needed_ so badly, but even if he'd wanted to pull away, he didn't think he had the strength. The feeling of need was barely tempered by the Zabrak's touch, and it was only through sheer force of will that Poe managed to keep from throwing himself forward in search of more contact.

That small victory was taken away from him a moment later, however, when the Zabrak, seemingly reaching a decision, abruptly pulled him close. The coarse fabric of the robes against his bare skin made Poe shudder, near pain, but it was better than the alternative. The Zabrak muttered something in his ear in response—praise? Admonishment? A question?—but Poe was too unfocused to understand, or even to tell if they were speaking a language he knew. 

When the Zabrak reached up to untie his gag, Poe figured they'd told him not to bite, and he was grateful enough to oblige. His mouth felt dry and he wanted to beg for water, but the thirst was nothing compared to the need to keep the Zabrak close. When the Zabrak tipped him backwards onto the table and arranged him with his feet planted and knees spread, he went willingly, only vaguely aware of noise in the background, a crowd laughing. He was slightly more aware of the veils covering his lower half being pushed out of the way and rucked up to his waist, but the feeling of cool air on more of his skin was quickly forgotten when the Zabrak reached between his legs. 

One long finger slid inside him, easy as a dream, and Poe wondered if he should've been concerned about that, about how loose and slick he was with no memory of becoming that way, but the thought disappeared almost as soon as it occurred. Being filled felt too good, and he jerked his hips, seeking more pressure. The Zabrak obligingly thrust his finger in and out, but it wasn't nearly enough, too slow, too small. Poe needed something bigger, and he shamelessly spread his legs, beyond caring how much of the audience was watching the display. He didn't care if it was the Zabrak's dick or the barrel of a blaster inside him next, just as long as whatever filled him was _big_.

At the obvious invitation, a second finger joined the first, although the increased width was barely noticeable. The Zabrak did curl his fingers when he thrust them, however, which gave Poe a jolt of pleasure whenever his knuckles rubbed against his inner walls. The third finger was more of the same, still not enough, but the addition of the fourth was almost perfect. Unfortunately, the Zabrak kept his fingers tightly bunched together, near overlapping one another as if he was trying to make the intrusion as small as possible, and that was not what Poe needed. On one particularly sloppy thrust, Poe pushed himself forward at the same time and was rewarded with an inch of wide palm as well, finally stretching him the way he wanted. The Zabrak twitched his fingers but didn't pull away, didn't even move. It was agony.

"Please," Poe said, wondering if his gag had been removed just so the Zabrak could hear him beg. "Please, I need more, anything, just _please_ make it _good_."

The Zabrak took a deep breath, audible to Poe's ears, and then he removed his fingers completely, leaving him gaping and spasming. Poe let out a broken moan of despair, feeling empty, and then he wasn't anymore, with something even larger than before suddenly stretching him. It was the Zabrak's fist, clenched tight but pushing in, in, in, until Poe wasn't sure how deep inside him it was. He felt like he was going to explode, and he wasn't sure if the pain in his stomach was from the pressure from within or from how hard he still was despite everything. Whichever it was, it only got worse when the Zabrak begin to slowly move his arm in a rotating motion, with his fist and then his forearm sliding slickly into Poe's body. His body was burning, it was too much or not enough, and only the knowledge that anything larger would _break_ him kept him from begging for even more.

Poe didn't realize he was crying until a hand came up to wipe at his cheeks, and the touch startled him into flinching away.

"Sorry," the Zabrak said, the sound barely audible behind his mask, and Poe thought he was hearing things. It was doubtful that they would be apologizing for the tears running down his cheeks; after all, Zabraks were known for cruelty.

Except then the Zabrak shifted in discomfort, and Poe saw that they were hard, visible even with their thick robes, and…that wasn't right. Poe knew Zabrak anatomy didn't include erections, for males _or_ females, and that thought was only confirmed when he noticed _how_ this man shifted—to hide his erection from the crowd.

He wasn't a Zabrak at all, and Poe fixed startled eyes on his face at the realization. Only his eyes were visible beyond the mask, Poe had known that from the start, but now he focused on those eyes, noting that they were dark brown and open, full of shame. Apologetic.

Poe would know those eyes anywhere. They had been imprinted in his mind from the moment that stormtrooper helmet had come off, and then every day after that. 

"Fi—" he said, but his breath caught halfway through the name. It was probably for the best; Poe had forgotten the crowd, but Finn clearly hadn't, if the panic that filled his gaze was anything to go by. Poe wasn't worried; it was Finn, and that meant a rescue. Even Poe's drugged mind knew that.

This rescue was admittedly a little more complicated, and Poe was given a harsh reminder when Finn shifted again, unwittingly burying his arm another half inch and making Poe choke back a scream. It still felt overwhelmingly intense, perhaps even moreso now, but the haze of drugs had started to fade. Everything was beginning to hurt, and with the pain to ground him, Poe realized how suspicious they must look. They'd been motionless too long.

"Finish it," Poe said, voice quiet, and Finn nodded inperceptibly. He grabbed for Poe's dick, still hard against his thigh, and he gave two pulls, three. Poe came dry, feeling like he'd already come a dozen times that day; he probably had, and he'd worry about that later.

The crowd was making approving, enthusiastic noises, enough noise that when Finn leaned forward, ostensibly to pull his arm out with a messy sound, nobody noticed when he cut Poe's arms free too.

"Rey's been running interference," he said, still quiet, still guilty. A glance down showed that he was also still hard. "And Pava has a ship out back. Can you run?"

Poe nodded. He'd find a way, even on wobbly legs. Rescue. Escape. There'd be time to discuss everything else later, and they _would_ discuss it. Poe would make sure of it.

When Finn turned, pulling a blaster out of his robes, Poe was already on his feet and stumbling towards the door.


End file.
